


Detective Inspector

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!DIMMOCK, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dimmock struggles with the transition from detective sergeant to detective inspector. He knows his youth makes it difficult for some of the older Yarders to accept his authority -- but sometimes enough is enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detective Inspector

Dimmock dropped his head to his desk. He stayed very still for a full minute -- and then picked his head up a fraction of an inch, and dropped it again. Up, brief pause, slam, repeat.  
  
No one in the office even blinked.   
  
He was upset. But to his credit -- he had a reason to be. He knew that the promotion from detective sergeant to inspector meant more work -- but he didn’t realise it meant doing more work with very bad help.   
  
It was entirely possible that he was a little bit biased. As a sergeant, he’d been very keen on doing whatever it was his superiors needed, as soon as possible. Mostly he was aiming for a promotion -- but reasons aside, surely everyone should have a similar fervour in their work? At the very least, they should be willing to do their jobs.  
  
He dropped his head to the desk one last time.   
  
Over the last five weeks, he’d heard every excuse in the book. “Well, you’re not here very often, are you?. You don’t really need an office.” “You aren’t really working in the building, so it’d be silly not to use your desk for a bit of storage.” “Oh, I switched out your chair because I actually need mine. Hope that’s alright with you.”  
  
Hope that’s alright with you.  
  
It wasn’t -- but what could he say to make an entire department of Metropolitan police officials understand that his job and his time was just as valid as everyone else’s? Iain let his head tip to the side and watched his co-workers pass him by without a hint of concern for why he’d been knocking his head into his desk over and over again.   
  
There was a manila folder under his cheek that was utterly useless without two critical forensics tests. The lab said they’d have the results four days ago. When he’d checked in yesterday morning, one of the assistants said not to worry -- they’d send them up by that afternoon.   
  
It was midday the following day, and still no results. No tests, and -- as the technician on the other end of the line had calmly explained, despite his mounting frustration -- the actual procedures hadn’t even been started yet, as of a few minutes ago.   
  
“Why?” Dimmock had demanded. “I put those requests in over two weeks ago.”  
  
“It says the tests were put on hold for another case. Carter signed for it.”  
  
Dimmock’s jaw tightened. “Detective Sergeant Carter?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s the one. DS J. Carter.”  
  
Iain had hung up abruptly -- but slowly giving himself a concussion had seemed like the best possible course of events after that.   
  
One of the interns -- a grad student who couldn’t have been more than five years younger than he was -- dropped a stack of interdepartmental envelopes in a box perched on the corner of his desk. She didn’t spare him a glance as she walked back to another DI’s office.   
  
He sat upright.   
  
Heads turned in his direction as he picked up the post box, carried it to an open spot on a table near the water cooler, and dropped it.   
  
“This is going to sit over here from now on,”  he announced, before turning on his heel and marching out the door. Some of his co-workers exchanged sardonic glances. Dimmock was already tromping down the stairs to Forensics, and could not be arsed to care.   
  
He shouldered his way into the lab, and stopped in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips. Several of the technicians looked up, and some of them even stopped working. They weren’t used to such dramatic interruptions.  
  
“DI Dimmock,” he said curtly. “I submitted two evidence packets for testing two weeks ago. And I need those tests to get done today.”   
  
A man standing at a table in the corner picked up two files and walked over. The rest of the forensics team quite promptly went back to work.   
  
“I’m sorry about that,” he replied. “Carter told Ellie that you’d agreed. She should have checked with you first.”   
  
Dimmock shrunk slightly. He’d marched into the lab with such an air of pomp and circumstance that he was surprised he could fit through the double doors. Now, standing in front of this reasonably affable CSE, he understood that Forensics was not at fault.   
  
His fellow detectives were.   
  
He shook his head. “I just need them as soon as possible,” he repeated. “I’m sorry--... Anderson, yeah?”   
  
The forensics scientist nodded and held out his hand. “Dr. Anderson. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your procedures aren’t delayed again.” He glanced over his shoulder at skittish-looking blonde lab assistant. “For any reason,” he added, sounding vaguely threatening.   
  
Dimmock stifled a smile. “Thank you.”   
  
Dr. Anderson looked back at him with a wry grimace. “They’ll be done in four hours. I’ll see to it myself. But you might want to have a word with Carter.”   
  
“Oh, I intend to,” Dimmock answered, his irritation rapidly returning at the mention of the other detective’s name.   
  
“He’s just come back from lunch break,” the one called Ellie added, subconsciously wiping at her slightly smudged lipstick.   
  
“Has he? Good.” Dimmock exhaled quickly, collecting his thoughts. “Four hours,” he repeated -- Dr. Anderson nodded -- and Dimmock retreated back out the doors.  
  
It was time to make a point.  
  
All the frustration and annoyance he’d felt since his promotion to DI began to well up inside him as he ran back up the stairs to his floor. He understood perfectly well what was going on -- and he wasn’t going to let it continue. So what if he was only twenty-eight years old. He was a good detective. He worked hard. He earned his promotion, and if it took calling another investigator out to make everyone understand that -- he would.  
  
He absolutely would.   
  
Dimmock pushed one of the doors open, scanned the floor, and found his target almost immediately. Carter -- just back from lunch, as Ellie had said -- was lounging in his desk chair with his hands laced behind his head. Dimmock couldn’t help but feel slightly smug at the thought of interrupting him.   
  
“Carter!” He barked. The entire floor turned to look from the DI, to the relaxed DS. Carter looked puzzled. “A word, if you please.” Dimmock held the door open, clearly waiting for him.   
  
The detective sergeant was surprised, but he stood up all the same and followed Dimmock out into the corridor. “Problem?” He asked casually -- although he assumed the wee detective was probably annoyed about having his case files bumped.   
  
“Problem, sir,” Dimmock corrected immediately.   
  
DS Carter’s eyebrows lifted simultaneously.  
  
Dimmock stared him down.   
  
“...sir. Sorry, sir,” Carter revised, after a short silence.   
  
Satisfied, Dimmock pulled out his badge. “Detective Inspector,” he said, reading it out. “And what are you?”   
  
“Detective Sergeant, sir,” Carter replied, trying not to sound too tart.   
  
“Detective Sergeant,” Dimmock repeated. “Which means that I outrank you. And if you ever pull my evidence, or subvert my cases in any way again, I will have your badge, and I will have your arse up in the Chief’s office, where he will happily hand it back to you. Bruised. Am I clear?”   
  
Carter’s expression was stony.   
  
“I said: Am-- I-- clear?” Dimmock asked, enunciating each word.  
  
“Yes, sir,” the thoroughly reprimanded detective sergeant answered.   
  
“Good.” Dimmock smirked. “Glad to hear it.” He stepped around Carter and walked back into the silent office.   
  
Some people had watched him leave. Now, everyone’s eyes were on him as he cheerfully returned to desk. His tea had gone cold, but he didn’t care. He could feel people staring -- but more importantly, he could sense the smirks and smiles hidden behind hands and paperwork as the other investigators gossiped quietly about what had just happened.   
  
As far as he was concerned, they could say anything they liked. He knew for a fact that the doors between the corridor and the office weren’t even remotely soundproof.


End file.
